A Slight Change of Plans
by AllShallFade777
Summary: An unusual hunt for a strange monster doesn't go as planned. A rookie mistake leaves Sam and Dean cut off from help and scrambling to figure out how to kill the creature before it kills them...
1. A Slight Change of Plans

A Slight Change of Plans

Run, run, run, faster!

 _"_ _Hang on, it's right here," Sam said, pointing to the page._

Dean fumbled another round into the chamber, stumbling. He could hear the thing skittering in the trees behind him. He forced himself to go faster.

 _"_ _They're called hellslights, or just slights, which is a misnomer, actually, because they don't come from hell."_

"Sam! You still with me?"

 _Dean leaned over the back of Sam's chair, frowning. "What about gnomes?"_

 _Sam rolled his eyes. "Dude. Pay attention."_

"Still here!" Sam called back. "Hurry it up, man, it's right behind us!"

 _"_ _A distant cousin of the wendigo, the hellslight is basically the opposite of a poltergeist," Sam paraphrased. "The spirit moves on, but the body comes back. It says this happens when 'negative energies, attracted by a horrific or otherwise tragic death, collect around the corpse. When enough energies are present, they possess the vacant body, their unbalanced, malicious nature warping the human form beyond recognition.'"_

A hideous screech like a chorus of human screams echoed behind them. Dean had thought he was running as fast as he could before. He found he was wrong.

 _Sam skimmed the page. "Let's see…they don't have eyes, ears, or noses, just a mouth full of long, needle-like teeth-"_

 _"_ _Awesome," Dean muttered._

 _"—_ _and razor sharp claws, which they use to skin their victims alive."_

 _"_ _Just keeps getting better."_

 _"_ _Hellslights only feed on the skin when it's fresh, but will eat the rest of the body once it starts to decompose."_

 _"_ _Delightful. Can we skip to the part about killing them, please?"_

"Dean! Building!"

Dean saw it. An old ranger station, crumbling into the mountainside. He changed direction, angling toward it. "Way ahead of you!"

 _"_ _Prefers warm places, thrives on decay, hunts at night…here we go: holy water. You have to force some holy water into them, then burn the body. Apparently if you don't douse them first, they're fire proof. And…huh, iron and rock salt slows 'em down."_

They barreled up to the station, Sam slamming into the door to halt his momentum and jar the door loose. It squealed, resisting.

"Damn it," Sam growled, "It's rusted shut." He took a step back and started kicking.

Dean covered him with the shotgun. It was too dark to see the creature, but he could hear it rustling up in the branches, getting closer. He fired in its general direction, rewarded with the sound of buckshot tearing into flesh and an angry wail.

"It's not slowing down!" Dean yelled, letting off another round. "Sam!"

 _"_ _I'd say this sounds like our guy," Sam said, sitting back._

 _Dean was already reaching for his jacket. "So let's load up the holy water and go get the sonofabitch," he said._

 _Sam didn't move. "I need to do some more research to be sure we got our facts straight first. Wouldn't be the first time the lore was wrong."_

 _"_ _Dude, we don't have time for fact-checking. People are dying; it took us long enough just to find this much on these freaks-"_

" _We can't afford to run out half-cocked on something like this, Dean."_

 _"_ _So take the book with you and read up on the way."_

He could see it now. A pale tangle of unnaturally long limbs, moonlight glinted off its teeth as the hellslight spidered its way through the trees. No matter how many times Dean shot it, it kept coming. He wasn't even sure which rounds he was using anymore—rock salt or iron, neither was working.

"Sam!" He called frantically.

"Working on it," Sam grunted, pounding at the door.

The creature launched itself into the tree directly above Dean and clung there. Its eyeless face was trained downward as though it could see Dean perfectly. For a moment it paused, grotesque mouth gaping, tongue snaking out to taste the air.

"Sam."

Dean's voice was deadly calm. His last pull at the trigger had been met with an empty click. He wouldn't have time to reload.

 _"_ _You know, you worry too much," Dean told his brother. The Impala crunched to a stop on the gravel lot in front of the woods. "You didn't find anything else about these slight things, did you?"_

 _Sam rolled his eyes. "Obviously if I was going to find something that contradicted the lore, it wouldn't have been in the same book," he grumbled._

 _The brothers climbed out and headed to the trunk._

 _"_ _Look, we've got iron, we've got salt, we've got holy water. We'll be fine, Sam."_

A long string of saliva slipped from the hellslight's mouth. It seemed to be grinning.

Dean stared up, unable to move. Sam was still thundering away at the door, oblivious to the creature that was about to rip their skin off. _God, Sam. Why didn't I listen to you?_

In a last-ditch effort, Dean thought of the knife at his belt. His hand twitched toward it.

The hellslight sprang.

Just as the thing got close enough for Dean to see the blood caked into its claws, there was an almighty, squealing _crash,_ and he was being pulled back into darkness.


	2. Told You So

Dean reeled, losing his grip on the gun as his arms shot out for balance. The hand yanking at his collar pulled away and he caught himself, eyes throbbing in the darkness.

 _Bang! Bang, bang!_

"Dean!"

He started; Sam's voice was right in front of him. His eyes adjusted just enough to see the slivered crack of the open door, bouncing against its frame as the hellslight tried to pound through. Sam was braced against it, straining to keep the door shut.

"Help me hold it!" he gritted out.

Dean immediately threw his back into it, going shoulder to shoulder with his brother against the cold metal and pushing with everything he had. Claws scrabbled wildly at the other side. The door slammed and opened, slammed and opened, busted latch unable to catch.

"It's gaining!" Sam warned. Their feet skidded on the floor, fighting for purchase as the hellslight forced the door farther and farther open. A claw slipped through, then a hand, bony and elongated and curling around the door.

"Oh, no you don't," Dean snarled. He whipped out his knife, shifted for a better angle, and gave the thing's fingers a savage slash.

With an enraged shriek, it recoiled, and the resistance on the other side of the door vanished. Dean and Sam staggered back, the door slamming shut with a final _bang_ behind hellslight's wounded keening sounded through the walls until it trailed off eerily into silence.

Dean exhaled in relief. "I think we're good," he breathed. He glanced over, trying to make out his brother in the darkness. "You okay?"

There was a pause, in which Dean was sure Sam nodded before remembering Dean wouldn't be able to see him. Then came the panted reply: "Yeah."

Satisfied, Dean slumped forward, catching his breath. He held up the knife and looked it over, its pale blade just visible. "Seriously, though?" He gave a dubious huff. "I blast the thing how many times with the shotgun and it doesn't even flinch, but one swipe with this and it's hightailing out?"

He could feel Sam peering skeptically over his shoulder. "Probably just surprised it," he said. "I doubt it's gone for good." There was a soft rustle as Sam moved, standing up straight. "Better get this door barricaded before it comes back. Flashlight?"

"Right. Yeah." Dean stowed the knife, swapping it out for the flashlight in his pocket. He clicked it on a beat after Sam did his, and the twin beams swept the room.

It was bare but for a small office setup and sitting area. The flashlights picked out what little there was, throwing shadows over a room that was made ghostly grey and forlorn by dust. It seemed the place had, for the most part, been picked over and emptied before it was abandoned.

"Not much to work with," Dean commented.

"Here," Sam said. He headed towards a sturdy-looking desk. "Help me move this."

They each took an end. Lifting it outright proved too difficult—under the layers of dust, the piece was solid, heavy oak—and they resorted to scooting it along the floor, Dean trying not to wince at every loud _screech._

"Guess there's no point trying to keep quiet for a thing with no ears," he said, offering his brother a humorless grin. "Not like it can hear us."

Sam's gaze was fixed ahead. "Far as we know," he replied. His mouth twitched into a rueful smirk. "Which isn't very far, considering the amount of research we did."

Ouch. Okay, so that stung a little. But Dean allowed his brother the jab and took it without protest. It was his fault they were in this mess; he deserved it, and probably a lot more.

They reached the door and shoved the desk firmly up against it. Sam stepped back, brushing dust off his hands. "This won't hold it for long."

Dean glanced around. "Grab one of those," he suggested, pointing the flashlight at a couple of armchairs.

Sam complied and started dragging one of them over, Dean taking the other.

Maybe Dean was imagining it, but the tension in the room seemed to be getting thicker than the dust. He coughed, wondering how to break it. "So, you, uh, think the knife might be one of this thing's weaknesses?" he asked, shoving at the chair. "It's silver; lots of monsters have a problem with silver."

Sam's back was to him, getting the chair situated under the doorknob. "Don't see how it could be." He spoke without turning, but Dean could hear the twist of spite in his voice. "I mean, the book didn't say anything about it."

Dean blinked, then tried not to roll his eyes. Passive-aggressive much? "Sam-"

"You know," Sam went on, ignoring him, "That _one_ chapter in that _one_ book. The one I looked through _on the way_ _here,_ before we threw our lives on it and ran out into the woods with no backup against a monster that's killed eight people in the last week."

Now Dean did roll his eyes. Sure, he deserved this, but Sam didn't have to be such a jerk about it. "Okay," he said. "I get it, alright? I made a stupid call. We weren't ready for this, and I dragged us out anyway. But come on, Sam. _Eight people._ You get that it would've been less if we hadn't taken so long researching?How many more would it be if we'd sat around with our thumbs up our butts at the library, trying to figure out what this thing's favorite color is?"

Sam slowly turned to look at him. "I don't know, Dean," he said. His eyes glinted darkly. "Maybe two less than it is now? 'Cause we're stuck in the middle of the woods being hunted by something we have next to no idea how to kill, with weapons that do jack squat. Not really liking our chances here, man."

He started back to the room, clearly trying to end the conversation. Dean made to stop him—the situation was bad enough without them arguing, and they needed to deal with this before it got one of them killed. He recoiled when his hand was met with warm stickiness.

His irritation immediately dried up, eyes widening. "What the…" He looked in shock at the black-red smear on his hand, then at the dark stain on his brother's left shoulder. The fabric of his shirt looked shredded. "Sam, what happened?"

"It's nothing." Sam immediately dismissed him, sidestepping. "It's fine."

Dean pinned him with a hard glare. "It's not nothing, Sam. Knock it off and hold still."

He caught his elbow to keep him from moving, giving him the 'older-brother death-stare.' With a resigned sigh, Sam gave in.

"Really, it's not that bad," he asserted halfheartedly. Dean ignored him, peeling back torn, tacky flannel to reveal the wound. Under the pale blue light of the flashlight, three angry red slashes were glistening across Sam's shoulder and part of his chest, just beneath his collarbone. As Dean prodded scraps of shirt out of the way, he noted with some relief that the cuts didn't seem too deep, and the bleeding had already stopped. Sam winced when Dean picked at the shirt where it had dried to the skin, but otherwise he didn't seem too bothered by the injury.

It was nothing serious; certainly not life-threatening. Just a flesh-wound. Still, a wave of guilt crashed over Dean. Apparently, the blood he'd seen in the hellslight's claws was much fresher than he'd thought.

"When'd it get you?" he asked around the lump in his throat. His thoughts were racing back, trying to remember when the hellslight would have gotten at his brother without him noticing.

Sam took a step back, carefully tugging his shirt back into place over the wound. "Back when we found it," he said. He huffed a rueful laugh. "When it found us, I should say."

It hit Dean then, and he knew exactly when Sam was referring to. The hellslight had practically landed on top of them, dropping down out of the branches like some kind of demented monkey. The book had said nothing about the creature's stealth, and they'd had no idea it was even there until it was landing right in front of them. Sam had reached for the holy water in the duffel he was carrying and the hellslight had lashed out, severing the bag's strap. Its claws must have gone deeper than Dean realized.

After that, things had immediately spiraled from bad to worse, and they'd been forced to run for it. Now Sam's shoulder was sporting the _Jurassic Park_ trademark slashes, the only weapon they had was Dean's utterly useless shotgun, and there was a seriously pissed-off monster waiting somewhere out there to flay them alive.

"Cut it out."

Sam's voice was weary as it cut into his thoughts. Confused, Dean lifted his gaze from the bloodstain on his brother's shirt to look him in the eye. "Cut what out?"

"The whole 'tortured soul, guilt-trip' routine," Sam said. He still sounded vaguely annoyed, but the sarcasm was gone, and for the most part he just seemed tired. "Just…quit blaming yourself for this. All right? You couldn't have known-"

"Yeah, but that's kind of the point, isn't it?" Dean cut him off with a bitter laugh. "We _would've_ known if I'd…"

"Listened to me in the first place? Yeah, probably." Sam tipped his head in acknowledgment. "We definitely would've been better off if we actually knew what we were up against. And having weapons that actually work would be a plus."

Dean snorted.

"But realistically," Sam continued, half-shrugging, "Things probably would've gone to hell anyway. I mean, when's the last time a hunt actually went as planned for us?"

"You know, that's gotta be the weakest argument I've ever heard," Dean said, but he was surprised that his brother was even trying to defend his stupid decision. "I screwed up, Sam. I screwed up and now we're both screwed. Quit tryin' to make this not my fault. You should be pissed at me."

"Oh believe me, I am," Sam replied bluntly. "We get outta this, you are never gonna hear the end of it. But that's not really going to help us right now, just like you beating yourself up about it isn't going to help. So just forget it for now. Let's figure out how to kill this thing, and we can kill _each other_ later."

Sam stepped around him, heading back into the room. Dean didn't move. He stared at the spot his brother had just been, admittedly a bit speechless. Finally, he managed to croak, "And if we _don't_ get outta this?"

He heard Sam stop and turned to meet his gaze. He was surprised by the sudden conviction in his eyes.

"We will," Sam said unwaveringly. "We always do." He started to turn again, then stopped and looked back, lips quirking. "For the record, though." He grinned wryly. "I told you so."


	3. All the Luck We Can Get

**Brief recap for anyone who started following when I first started posting this story over a year ago,so you don't have to re-read: _After running into a hunt unprepared, an ill-fated encounter with an unpredictable new monster called a hellslight leaves Sam and Dean trapped in an abandoned ranger station in the middle of the woods. With scant information on the hellslight's weaknesses and having lost most of their supplies fleeing, they stand little chance of getting out of the forest alive unless they can come up with a plan to kill the creature._**

 **I have an actual plan for this story now, so it shouldn't take another year and half to get another chapter done. One would hope not, anyway.**

* * *

They stood in front of an old map. It was faded, yellowed, and in the process of tearing itself free from the tacks pinning it to the wall near the door. The paper crinkled under Dean's finger when he pointed to a location. "Okay," he said. "So we're here."

Sam raised an eyebrow. The corners of his mouth twitched. "Actually…that's a different forest." He pointed to a different spot. "We're right here _."_

Dean sent him a look. "Yes, thank you, Sacagawea." He stabbed the new point. "So, we're _here._ We parked the car and went into the woods down…here. How far do you think we went before we got attacked? Four, five miles? Which would put the weapons bag…there. Ish. Which means we've got a mile between us and our stuff." He traced the path, a deceptively short inch on the map.

"Assuming the slight didn't go back and tear it all to pieces," Sam said.

"Optimism, Sam." Dean could practically feelhis brother rolling his eyes.

"Okay. _Optimistically,_ there's a mile of densely wooded area between us and all of our possibly-useless weapons. And for the length of that whole mile, that thing out there could drop out of the trees and kill us at any time."

"I'd hate to hear the pessimistic version of that…"

"That's where we don't even make it out of the station before it comes back to finish us off," Sam said flatly.

He had a point there. The heap of furniture blocking the door suddenly didn't seem sturdy enough. Heck, the whole building needed some serious repairs before it was even structurally sound, let alone secure.

The ranger station was little more than a large cabin, the log frame of its single main room making it seem more like a hunting lodge than anything else. The boards rotting over the windows, the ivy vines snaking through cracks in the walls, and the beams sagging in the rafters all attested to the fact that the years since the station had been abandoned had not been kind.

But most concerning of all were the holes in the roof. They were small—just large enough to accommodate the branches sticking through—but with enough determination, the hellslight would be able to tear them wider. Getting up there also wouldn't be a problem for it; they'd already seen how much the thing loved to climb.

As Dean took in the station's many weak points, he had to wonder if they were really any safer in here than outside.

He tried not to think about it. They knew they had problems—a lot of problems—but right now they needed to stay focused on finding a solution.

"Okay," he said. "Say our lives don't go straight to worst case scenario like usual. We've gotta decide if we're going to head a mile deeper into the woods to get our gear," he traced the path on the map, "or go a few miles the other way and try to get back to the car." When he reached the end of that route, he tapped the tiny gray spot that indicated a parking lot, imagining that the Impala was right under his finger.

Sam roved the flashlight over the map, chewing his lip. "So it's either go farther into this thing's territory and _maybe_ wind up with something we can use to kill it, or risk trekking out with nothing to defend ourselves with." He looked at Dean. "You wanna flip a coin?" he said. The sarcasm leeching into his tone wasn't enough to hide the edge of anxiety. "Because I'm pretty sure we're equally screwed either way." He turned and paced away, running a hand through his hair.

A fresh stab of guilt twisted around in Dean's chest. He shoved it down along with the quickly rising desperation, saying, "C'mon, though. The odds suck, but they have to be better one way over the other, right?"

"Normally," Sam clipped out. He spun back around. "Normally, I'd say go for the gear. Shorter distance, and once we get the weapons we'll be able to fight back. But normally _,_ we know what the hell we're doing. Right now, there's no guarantee that anything we have is actually going to doanything. The stuff that's supposed to work doesn't, and I doubt the slight's just gonna stand there while we run through everything in the weapons bag trying to kill it." He shook his head, turning away again.

"What about the holy water and fire thing, though?" Dean said, snapping his fingers. "That sounded legit."

"So'd the rock salt and iron," Sam countered. "Most creatures that run on evil energy have a weakness to purifying substances. Based on what I read about how hellslights are created, those should'veworked. Maybe the book got their origin wrong, or just their weaknesses, or maybe we're dealing with a different species entirely. Who knows?" He threw his hands in the air.

They lapsed into silence, Sam pacing, Dean staring at the map. A sense of urgency charged the air between them and the flimsily-barricaded door. No matter how long they stood there though, the map wasn't suddenly going to reveal a better way, and the room wasn't suddenly going to become better fortified.

Sam finally slowed to a stop. He was staring at the map. "Maybe…" He trailed off. Thoughts zipped around in his eyes; whatever they were, they seemed to trouble him.

"Maybe what?"

Sam swallowed, then his expression hardened. "Maybe we split up."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, okay." He started to turn away but stopped when Sam didn't waver. "Wait. You're serious?"

"I'm serious."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "How the hell can you be serious?"

"Because I seriously don't want to die." Before Dean could growl back an answer, Sam added, "Look, there's no easy way out of this, whichever way we go. But if one of us stays back, makes enough noise and hides out long enough, maybe we can distract this thing while the other goes for help. One of us at least could get to the weapons, or get back to town and call in some more hunters. It's the best chance we have of one of us making it through the woods without the slight attacking again."

"Yeah, but that leaves whichever one of us stays behind with no chance whatsoever," Dean argued, crossing his arms. "And let me guess: you volunteer as tribute."

Sam gave him a funny look at the reference, but didn't comment. Instead, he gestured at his bloody shoulder. "The slight's already got a taste of my blood. If I go out there, it'll just come after my scent. I can stay here, let the blood draw it in, while you make a run for it."

"Assuming it follows scents. I was the one shooting it. It'll be pissed and come after me."

"Assuming it holds grudges. Look, Dean, making assumptions is what got us into this mess in the first place—"

"Yeah, _my_ assumptions. _I'm_ what got us into this mess in the first place," Dean said, slashing a hand through the air. "And I'm not leaving you behind to play bait trying to get us out of it, you got that? If either of us is going to stay behind, it should be me, but it's not going to happen because we're not splitting up."

"You know we won't make it if we both go out there, Dean. I can buy you some time—"

"What, while it plays with your corpse?"

Sam closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "No, while I _distract it._ I'll hole up in here and hold it off—"

"How? With what? There's nowhere to hide, nothing to fight with, and nothing that'll keep this thing out for longer than a few minutes. It's not happening, Sam."

"Dean—"

"We. Are not. Splitting. Up. However we get out of this, we get out together, Sam, so just drop it." He stared his brother down, matching the stubborn set of Sam's jaw until Sam finally deflated. With a begrudging nod, Sam went back to pacing.

Dean blew out a sigh. He watched Sam walk away, then turned back to the map.

Surprise, surprise, no conveniently-located armories or taxi services had magically appeared. There was no way they were splitting up, so they were back to their two original choices.

Dean sighed again. "Okay," he said. Sam stopped to look at him as Dean reached into his pocket, came up with a quarter, and put it on his thumb. "Heads we go for the weapons, tails we go for the car."

"What?" Sam stalked over. "No." He slapped the coin out of Dean's hand. "Dude, I was kidding about flipping a coin. We need to think this through."

Dean scowled as the coin went rolling across the room. "Aw, come on, that was my last quarter!"

Sam shone his flashlight in Dean's face, looking incredulous. "Your last quarter? Are you kidding me? We might get torn to shreds out here, and you're worried you won't be able to get any candy out of the candy dispenser?"

Dean swatted the flashlight away. "It wasn't _for_ candy," he grumbled. "Magic fingers."

Sam stared at him. His jaw was working in that familiar way that meant he was trying to figure out if he should be questioning his brother's sanity, lecturing him about not being an idiot, or laughing. Sam opened his mouth—Dean held back a wince, because that was Sam's lecture face—but they both froze as the light drumroll of the retreating quarter suddenly ceased.

There was a moment of silence.

Then a faint, ringing clatter came from beneath them as the coin circled to rest against stone.

Dean met Sam's gaze. Then, moving simultaneously, they pointed their flashlights at the corner the coin had disappeared into and started forward. Their searching beams went unmet by the gleam of silver, and sure enough, when they knelt to get a better look at the floor, they found a crack between two floorboards.

Dean tried to play his light into the narrow space, frowning dubiously. "This place have a basement?" he asked.

Sam shone his flashlight around. There wasn't much to the place, especially now that most of the furniture was stacked against the front door; besides a fireplace with a collapsed chimney and a loft over the far wall with a ladder too decayed to climb, the room was bare.

But now that they were looking for it, Dean caught the gleam of brass amidst the shadows in the recess under the loft. A doorknob. And underneath a mat of vines, a door.

"Huh," Sam said. He stood and approached it. Dean followed right behind. Together, they yanked the ivy away, sending a fresh wave of dust into the air and scattering a dozen or so wolf spiders from their hiding places. Sam grabbed the doorknob when it was free and tugged it, eliciting an unhappy squeal from the rusted inner mechanism and another from the hinges as the door creaked open.

Darkness yawned before them. The musty, wet smell of earthworms and moldering wood hit them in a gust of chilled, stale air.

Dean waved his hand in front of his face. "Ugh. Yep, that's a basement." He grimaced.

"Might be something we can use down there," Sam said, seemingly unfazed. His light roamed down the plank staircase, then suddenly flicked back into Dean's face. "You wanna check it out?"

Dean batted his hand away, annoyed. "I can't exactly say it's on my bucket list, no." He sighed, staring down through the black doorway. Then he caught his brother's meaning. "Wait. You mean, do _I_ wanna to check it out, as in _just_ me? What about you?"

"Someone should stay up here in case the hellslight comes back," Sam said. "And I volunteer you as tribute." He clapped Dean on the shoulder with a grin. "Go get your quarter, man."

Dean scowled at him, but he couldn't argue. This was his mess to clean up, after all.

He stared down into the dark, resisting the urge to step back.

A few more hours of research. Would it have killed him to just let Sam do a few more hours of research? Rock-paper-scissoring it out over who went into Satan's basement would still be an option then. Or heck, he could just play the 'older brother says so' card and push the kid down the stairs.

He took a deep breath and prepared to brave the stairs, then paused, remembering he still had the knife. He pulled it out and handed it to Sam. "Here, take this. Might not kill it, but at least it's something."

Sam's expression turned serious again as he nodded and pocketed the knife, then held his flashlight back up to give Dean some extra light on the stairs. A tinge of humor crept back into his tone, along with the tension Dean could feel building in his own veins as he faced the black doorway, as he said, "Good luck."

In the combined light of their flashlights, the first few stairs stood out like a tongue vanishing into the gaping mouth of some huge creature. As Dean stepped into it, trying not to think about getting swallowed—either by the cold shadows that rushed to envelope him, or by the hellslight waiting outside to strip their skins off like banana peels—he figured they could both use all the luck they could get.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Next chapter is in progress (but so are like five other chapters for various other stories, so we'll see what takes priority. You know how it goes).**

 **Reviews and PMs and basically all other forms of communication are welcome. Considering I'm off to talk to an Irish Wolfhound, I could use some human conversation. :)**


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